Prompt: The thornbush is the oldest obstacle in the road. It must catch fire if you want to go further. - Kafka 

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Her. A thorn in his side. No, worse. A thornbush. An obstacle between him and the majestic forest at the end of the road he longed to roam again, as he had all his life. Sometimes he thought she a witch. Demanding. He listened and obeyed only because of her beauty. Something familiar tugged at him, but he couldn't remember what it was. And she seemed to care. He sometimes screamed at the imposter that replaced her. But then he forgot. He was always forgetting. But she always came back. Even though she was stealing from him.

One night he found her crying on the edge of her bed. Exhausted. His heart broke. She looked like an ancient version of a young woman he'd once married. What happened to her? He sat beside the old woman and held her hand. They sat in silence and she turned her tear-stained face towards his. He smiled, marveling at her sparkling blue eyes. But he couldn't see the blue in the dim light. How did he know what color they were? They had never met. 

Unable to control himself he kissed her. Deeply, passionately. Desire flared. Burned. In him, in her. They fell upon the mattress and made love easily, tenderly. As if they had done so for a lifetime. When at last she drifted off to blissful sleep he lay looking out the window at the crescent moon and smiled. Exhilarated, he slipped quietly out the front door. The forest stood dark at the end of the road. At last, he'd remembered.